


Going Your Way

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Civilian Eggsy Unwin, Civilian Harry Hart, Comedy, First Dates, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Love at First Sight, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 09:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: For that "it’s my first time flying first class and instead of rolling your eyes at my excitement you buy me champagne" AU prompt that went around.Eggsy gets upgraded, Harry's a frequent flier, and lust is in the air.





	Going Your Way

**Author's Note:**

> Title is the slogan for Botswana Airlines, for those invested in how my mind works.
> 
> A little something dusted off from the archives. My usual rolling list of multiple works in progress is ongoing, and now contains a big piece with something resembling an actual plot (!) which is likely to divert me, but then I'm usually productive when I'm trying to do something else, so who knows? I digress, what I'm saying is if you're interested in a multi-chaptered romcom from me it's going to be out in a few months so now may be the time to hit that 'subscribe' option.

Going Your Way

Fucking typical, is what this is.

Eggsy ain’t been on holiday since his dad was still alive and even then it was a low budget resort in Portugal. It was amazing, from what he remembers of the pools and the games and the little kids club thing -  did he maybe win a prize for colouring or something? Seems to remember that - but the waits at the airports were longer than the flights and it was hardly a year’s backpacking around the East, is his point. And then he’d got the opportunity to go with the gymnastics hopefuls to Indiana, and like more or less everything in his life, it has not gone to plan.

The airline had lost his bag on the way out, and the event itself had been… not what he was expecting. Too much listening and meeting and not enough doing, all cooped up in a complex he’d barely seem outside of all week. He’d known they were there for training, not a holiday,  but he’d hoped there might be a spare afternoon to go do some exploring, see some things that would actually make him feel like he’d been to America other than driving past a sign for a Hooters that he  _ hadn’t even got to go to  _ and getting really, really smashed on Long Island Ice Teas the one night they had gone out, which he definitely paid for on the mats all the next day.

But then, of course, everyone else had been able to scrape together the money to extend the hotel stay by another week considering their flights were all paid for, so Eggsy had had to make his excuses -not that they didn’t all know he was skint but their skint and his skint appear to be every different things - and travel home on his tod.

And now some bird has fucked off with his boarding pass and is talking to someone who looks a bit superior, and he’s just waiting to get hauled aside and told his flight's overbooked and he’s got to wait til 4am for the next one, or there’s something wrong with his visa, or they’re going to fucking cavity search him for drugs.

“Mr Unwin? Sorry for the delay.” She’s got a sweet smile and it looks happy, not the sympathetic smile of  _ ‘sorry you’re about to get fingered cos you look like a crack dealer’ _ , but he’s not going to get his hopes up. “Apparently you didn’t have the best experience on the way here. By way of apology, we’d like to offer you a complimentary upgrade to Club Class for your return journey.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that over-politeness but Eggsy catches  _ complementary _ and  _ upgrade _ and manages to stop himself swearing in surprise before the chance is snatched away from him.

“Really? Yeah, uh, thanks. Please. “

“Excellent. We’re already boarding Priority Passengers, if you’d like to follow me?”

_ Priority fucking passengers.  _ That’s about right, ain’t it? Like people are better human beings because they can afford to spend like…who even knows how much? Cattle class was like five hundred quid, first class must be stupid money. Still, this is probably going to be Eggsy’s only chance to have this sort of ridiculousness aimed at him, so right now he’s not complaining.

One of the stewards gives him a bit of a dirty look when he ducks through the third set of curtains separating the posh bit from the rest of the plane, blatantly because it’s obvious he’s been upgraded for free and doesn’t belong there, and he wants to think ‘fuck that guy’ but it catches Eggsy off guard, he’s tired and wary, and it almost makes him want to tell them not to worry about it and scuttle back off to seat 64E.

And then the hostess shows him to his… it’s not even a seat. It’s like a recliner in its own little curved pod next to the window and its facing  _ backwards _ which he had no idea was a thing that existed, and this is all so much he’s starting to get a bit stressed out. But he manages to sit down before too many of the first class’ regular clientele file in and get a look at him, the way he’s dressed - he takes his hat off, would have anyway, it’d give him a headache after a bit - and ask for him to be kicked back into cattle class with the rest of the plebs. Eggsy lays low, settles down to see that his chair bed thing comes with actual pillows, and is weirdly facing the one offset next to it, between it and the aisle. That makes sense, once he orients himself: it means neither have to do the arse/crotch shuffle past the other made so infamous by  _ Fight Club,  _  and you’ve both got room to stretch your legs right out; you’re face to face which would be nice if you were with a partner or a mate or something but with a stranger it’s going to be really fucking awkward.

The aisles thin out as people take their seats, the later few filing into place, and Eggsy gets to see who he’s going to be sharing this supreme bit of rich people wankery with.

He’s gorgeous. He would be, wouldn't he.  

“Good evening.” The stranger’s voice is a chocolatey rumble and it’s something that he even bothers to greet Eggsy rather than ignoring their proximity, and Eggsy finds himself staring rather than replying.  He wonders if they’re covertly being recorded for a British airways advert. You have to sign a form for that, don’t you? But Eggsy has encountered plenty of middle aged London businessmen and not one of them  pulled the look off quite like  _ that. _ He’s tall and slender but with broad shoulders and a heft to him that suggests he's a gym devotee rather than skinny under his subtle, expensive looking suit; thick hair going silver where it shines; a serious face, but a touch of laughter in his brown eyes that Eggsy doesn’t feel like is at him for a change.  The stranger unbuttons his jacket as he drapes himself down into the seat and stretches out, and he'd need to be in business class or they'd have to put those legs in fucking storage. Wow.

Is this all part of the first class service? Somehow even the eye candy is better. All the way out to Indiana  Eggsy had been stuck between a woman with a cough and a nervous sweaty bloke with grubby hands, and now here he is with this bloke sitting in front of him like he’s been personally selected for Eggsy to eyeball, fit and posh and conspicuously boring, like a super hero’s alter ego or perhaps some sort of dashing spy.

Good choice.

He gets caught looking, and for a second he’s embarrassed but then he realises the reason he got caught was that the guy was giving  _ him _ the once over too, and although his already shaken ego takes a moment to allow it, it's pretty clearly the pleasant sort rather than the judgmental sort.

The stewardess stops Eggsy gawping by offering him a drink.

“Erm, yeah, can I have a beer?” Eggsy gets his wallet out of his pocket, fully prepared to pay through the nose for it but bollocks, he's only going to travel like this once, he's at least going to get himself a drink even if he makes it last, but is surprised to find the air hostess shakes her head and says “all complimentary, sir,” and before he knows it there’s  a frosted, dripping can of Innis and Gunn on a little square serviette in front of him, like magic.

“Would you like a glass?”

He supposes he’d better.

“First time in Club Class?” The fit leggy bloke is looking like he wants to laugh at him and Eggsy can't help but glare. He knew he was going to be out of place but he hoped once he'd sat down he'd just be allowed to get on with it and nobody would call him out in the fact he don't belong there, but the man holds an apologetic hand up as if he knows he's put his foot in it. “It was the trying to pay for the drink that gave you away.”

“Yeah, nice save. I know it's fucking obvious I'm a free upgrade. Sorry if I'm lowering the tone, alright?”

_Ouch._ It comes out a little stroppier than Eggsy means it to but he’s been sitting on that one since he got through the gates and it’s not like he had a chance anyway, for him to have blown it: this guy is too posh for Eggsy, for sure, too rich and surely a good twenty years older than him, though he wouldn't say that was too old necessarily. He's never really thought about it: he's never sat opposite a bloke old enough to be his father and got that kinda flirty  _ what have we here  _ look over the rims of his Clark Kent glasses, never noticed one in real life that ticked the same boxes as film stars, all smooth and handsome.

But tonight's only gone to prove there is a first time for everything, and he doesn't rise to Eggsy's attitude, surprisingly: just quirks an eyebrow and smiles at him again.

“I rather thought you might be someone famous I hadn't heard of. Some trendy musician, perhaps. Or a model.”

His eyes flick over Eggsy as if to suggest where he might have put together either of those ideas from. Is he… is he _flirting_ _with him_? It’s enough to take the sharp edge off Egssy’s ire, certainly.

“They lost my bag on the way out and it came back damaged. Think they thought I was gonna kick off so they upgraded me.”

“Rightly so,” he nods, as though he for some reason cares what happened to Eggsy’s suitcase and the idea of him being inconvenienced deeply offends him. “Well, economy’s loss is very much our gain.”

Definitely flirting. At the very least it feels like a layer of protection from how obviously Eggsy sticks out, someone else on his side, and it's a way to pass the time even though it's obviously not going to go anywhere: a bit of fun. It's a nice feeling, when you can tell someone likes the look of you  - so maybe this guy is into a bit of rough, likes a toy boy, likes them young, or blonde, who knows - and it's not someone you'd turn down either, plus like, Eggsy's never been with anyone more than a couple of years older, never anyone significantly more experienced, nobody with anything to show him. Ain't it supposed to be amazing? He's getting away from himself, there, but at least he's lined up for some banter a bit more witty than “nice trainers, want a blowjob?”  To go with his little goody bag and his plush bedchair thing. Result, really.

Just as he thinks he’s getting into the swing of it, Eggsy finds himself staring slack jawed at a menu with a lot of words on it he can't pronounce, and a list of cocktails he didn't know existed.

“It's quite something, isn't it.”

“Everything's free?”

“It is. So go for the champagne cocktails,” the posh guy nods conspiratorially. Eggsy is beginning to suspect he's already had one or two in the departure lounge. He is probably the least stuck up posh person he's ever met, not least to be cracking on to someone like Eggsy ten minutes in to a long haul flight. Must be game for a bit of fun despite his stuffy suit, although he’s taken the jacket off whilst Eggsy was trying to translate his dinner options. Eggsy was right: he's distractingly fit.

“Right, so, if you can afford however much all this costs you get given all the good shit for free, but you scrape together enough for an EasyJet flight to Benidorm and you have to pay through the nose for a beer?!”

He shrugs in agreement, and leans over. “I recommend the Kir Royale. Watch it, though. Bubbles will get you  _ fucked up _ at altitude.”

Eggsy has absolutely no idea what to say to this mad posh bastard swearing at him in a voice that could otherwise be addressing the Queen, but he goes along with it and ends up with what seems to be champagne with Ribena, double parked for a moment next to his almost finished beer. It's way too drinkable.

“Cheers,” the posh bloke extends his glass past the divider, and they clink together. That in itself makes Eggsy notice that most other facing pairs have put their dividing screens up now, wonders if he's supposed to, whether it's rude to be the person who does or the person who doesn't, not that he cares. he doesn't really want to anyway, because the posh bloke keeps smiling at him, or leaning over to show him things, or to pull an aghast face at someone else who's already started snoring that almost has Eggsy snorting Kir Royale out of his nose.

“What's your name?”   Eggsy reckons he only asks because Eggsy turns back from the window just after takeoff and catches him staring. Somewhere around mouth level, which makes Eggsy flush hot with both self-aware nerves a little tingle of arousal.

“Eggsy. Well that ain't my real name obviously but it's what everyone calls me.”

“Well, Eggsy, international man of mystery, I’m Harry. It's an absolute pleasure to share the popping of your first class cherry with you. If a word from the more experienced can be of any use, I’m at your service.”

Jesus Christ, he lays it on a bit thick. But then it’s all accelerated…  you're not normally already basically in a bed with someone when you start flirting with them, are you? Eggsy follows the thought to its logical, if somewhat fantastical conclusion - stripping that suit off and getting right on him in that bed-chair - and is absolutely fine with it, so he just grins.

“I’d recommend the tortellini,” cuts in Harry, conversationally, when Eggsy has been staring at the menu for at least ten minutes without progress because he’s actually thinking about how long it’s been since he last got laid and whether it’s any more, or any less, feasible to hook up with someone after meeting them on a plane than it would be from a bar, or online. His logical mind wants to tell him it’s absurd, for some reason, but his instincts won’t even be persuaded that it’s unlikely given the looks Harry’s giving him in the relative privacy of their almost-booth.  “Or the Arctic char, if you like fish, though the real highlight of that dish is the crab beignets it comes with, and are you at all partial to potatoes dauphinoise?”

“Mate, I don’t even know what that is.”

“Then it will be a joy to introduce you.”

Interestingly, Harry nods to make sure Eggsy’s order is taken first and waits to hear what he chooses. Eggsy goes for the Arctic Char because it sounded good, not because it was the only thing he was confident pronouncing, thanks, and he’s not at all surprised when Harry then opts for the tortellini and a couple of side dishes without even looking at that part of the menu.

“You know your way round all this, huh?”

“I’m something of a frequent flier,”  he says whilst removing his tie, which somehow makes the answer sound amazingly rude.

As pre-dinner entertainment, Eggsy is treated to the agonisingly tame striptease of Harry unfastening a button, then another, and the one below seems to want to pop open of his own accord but he leaves it to strain across the breadth of his chest. Then he removes his cufflinks, drops them into his pockets and turns his sleeves up to his elbows. After that - and another two drinks, bloody hell can this man put it away - he relaxes back into his recliner and taps sporadically at the laptop he’s put on his side table.

When dinner is served, it’s like being on a date. Eggsy’s been on actual dates that have been less like being on a date. The lights are low, the background chatter comforting but seemingly miles away, like they’re in their own little world thirty thousand feet above wherever the fuck they are now, talking about Harry’s successful sales trip and Eggsy, when asked, tells him he was there to compete as a gymnast.

“You’re being deliberately ridiculous,” Harry murmurs, looking scandalised, and Eggsy couldn’t miss the delighted flare in his eyes if he tried. Alright, maybe he  _ was _ waiting for his moment to land that bit of information, but it was worth it and despite the clusterfuck of the trip on the whole he's pretty proud of how he did in the final contest.

“Swear down! I placed in Vault and Rings, and I came second in Bars!”

Harry shakes his head and takes a sip of his wine like he needs it to swallow down whatever that was he just mumbled about  _ coming second,  _ and then distracts them both before they can do anything ridiculous by offering Eggsy one of his tortellini and feeding it to him from the end of his fork. That’s not  _ not  _ ridiculous, because it is incredibly good and Eggsy makes an effort to take it gently with his tongue and only nudge the fork with his teeth, definitely doesn’t make eye contact because that would just be a step too blatant. Not that there’s really any coming back from this.

“Want a beignet?”

Harry moans like Eggsy’s just licked his nipple or something, obviously hamming it up and they both start laughing, and have to shush themselves. He almost feels like someone’s going to come and make them sit apart like a pair of naughty kids, but it seems more likely he’ll end up back in steerage. So he puts a lid on it for a bit.

“This - “  he waves a forkful of the potato-whateveritwas that they brought for Harry and Harry immediately slid across onto Eggsy’s table “- is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” The innuendo hangs, unchallenged. “Really fucking good. Thank you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

For about half an hour, Eggsy chickens out of starting a conversation because between the fizz and the flirting he’s getting a bit horny, which always makes him stupid, and he can’t find anything on the balance between ‘mindlessly boring and going to shatter the mood of intrigue’ and ‘completely, shamelessly blatant’. Top of the running is asking Harry whether his frequent flyer miles get him VIP membership to the mile high club. 

He'd be offering, for sure, and he's curious.  He bets he has, too. Bets he’s charmed the pants off some camp-as-get-out twenty year old air steward and had him up against the side of the stupid tiny bathroom, legs around his waist, sink and hand dryer digging into them and not even giving a shit. Harry looks like he could hold someone up like that no problem. Looks like he could hold Eggsy up, even, although there is of course also the possibility that he would rather Eggsy bend him over the ridiculous little sink, which is to say barely, and ram himself right up that arse he hasn't even got a look at yet but you can bet he's going to be checking out the moment Harry gets up. And the only place he’ll be getting up to go is that bathroom, and it's going to be some fucking effort not to follow him, although Eggsy will be moving as little as possible until this erection dies down.

What if he invites him to? Eggsy knows, realistically, that it’s absolutely not a thing real people do, and that he’d not have the guts even if it was, but he can’t stop the idea scrolling out in his head, the boundaries of what’s possible pushed just a little by the champagne and the surreal quality of his whole night.

He wonders if you could get away with having a wank; concludes probably, if you were the type that could do it shifty and quiet like, with not a hell of a lot of movement, and of course if you put up the privacy screen but that would mean missing the little smiles Harry occasionally tips him when he catches him looking. The fantasy sits with him momentarily and he imagines doing it with Harry watching: putting on a silent little show for him whilst the rest of the cabin sleeps on, secret and furtive. Wonders if Harry would do the same but subtler, less desperate, keeping covered with his blanket and not letting Eggsy see his cock or his hand working on it, when Eggsy was all on show. Or whether Harry's age means he'd be more restrained, maybe just smile and mouthe a thank you at him, save the thought for another time. 

At this rate Eggsy will be shuffling off to the cupboard-loo to do his mile high club inauguration solo. That he definitely  _ could  _ get away with...

Eggsy’s fidgeting coincides with a patch of turbulence and Harry reaches out to touch his wrist across the divider.

“Are you a nervous flier?”

“Nah.” Which gives him absolutely no excuse for the way he’s wriggling around, so he conjures himself one sharpish because the muffled near-silence it’s too soft for the truth.  “A bit, when its bumpy.”

“Would you like to hold my hand?” 

He's got lovely hands: long and weathered, neat nails, clean and strong looking, and Eggsy lets their fingers brush just a little on the way back to his drink. His mouth has gone dry, but he manages to return Harry's grin over the glass.

“I'm a big boy. I can deal.”

“I don't doubt that.”

Eggsy’s face is hot, although that's got to be at least partially the booze. How the fuck did they get here? Why is the tension between them so fucking obvious that all he can imagine, if he let Harry hold his hand, is it slowly being pulled across and down into his lap to have a feel of his hard-on just out of sight below the divide between them? He’s imagining things, surely: Harry’s not got any less well off or less posh; Eggsy’s not suddenly climbed up a class just by being in a different part of the plane. It’s not going to happen, surely?

He calms himself just in time to accept another drink when it's offered.

“This shit’s  _ good, _ ” he toasts at Harry over his fifth - maybe fifth? Sixth? - Kir Royale, whilst poking through the movie premieres on the screen he’s barely noticed since he sat down. Had better things to look at, hasn’t he?  “Don’t think I’m gonna be sleeping."

“Couldn't agree more. Although I will in fact have to have a little doze, I've got to be somewhat coherent tomorrow.” Harry looks rueful, as though he’d very much like to stay awake and chat. Eggsy has a completely uninvited two-second daydream about leaning on Harry’s shoulder to watch a movie, half asleep. Why does that seem wonderful?

When Harry gestures, Eggsy looks in the little bag that was on his seat when he got on and finds an eye mask, earplugs, a little mini toothbrush and toothpaste, some sweets... it just keeps going.

“It’s wonderfully domestic, isn’t it? They're one off giving you a set of winceyette striped pyjamas.” Eggsy doesn’t know what winceyette is, but at a guess he’d go for those PJs that they used to wear in toothpaste adverts. Harry grins at him, settling back ready to pull his mask down - he brought his own, obviously, Eggsy isn’t sure why he already feels he knows him well enough for that to be obvious but it is. “Well, goodnight, dearest. Do kick me if I  snore, although I'd have to go some way to drown out that walrus behind you.”

Eggsy thinks maybe then that he should pull the divide up and give him some privacy but he doesn't want Harry to wake up and think that he was waiting not to have to talk to him, that he's not interested, though he doubts it will matter. It’s a bit disappointing to think sleep and sobriety will put an end to all of this but there’s nothing to be done for it: it was fun while it lasted. Definitely the best three hour romance of Eggsy’s life, and he’s had more of them than he really wants to think about.

Without the distraction of Harry's company the entire experience is weird as all fuck. He's the only person awake other than a woman with a toddler on her lap quietly playing on an iPad And who the hell can afford to bring kids in here like it's standard?

He must fall asleep, though, because the next thing he knows  he wakes up to a clatter which turns out to be the person behind him given their coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice, so he's just about with it enough to remember where the hell he is - 30 odd thousand feet in the sky, _alright, normal_ \- and accept the same.

And he didn't dream Harry up, either, because there he is adjusting his seat so he can sit up for his coffee. He looks reasonably put together but he doesn't strike Eggsy as the sort of person you attempt to speak to before a couple of espressos. 

Harry surprises him with a deliberately sickly smile.

“Good morning, my sunshine. How did you sleep?”

Eggsy's stomach swoops and he thinks, for a moment, that they've hit an air pocket; that they're plummeting and about to get the dangling oxygen masks and all that paraphernalia he wasn't listening to enough to get through an emergency landing. But that turns out to just be the sensation of this fucking gorgeous, silly, rich stranger calling back their evening's in-joking as the first words out of his mouth in the morning, a mile in the sky and still half-cut on free cocktails. 

Is this how the other half live?

Breakfast is if anything more ridiculous than dinner, but that might be because Eggsy's had most of two bottles of actual champagne - not even fizzy wine - and less than three hours' sleep.  Harry points to the eggs Benedict on the menu and nods enthusiastically at him, so he orders that, and correctly guesses that the fried potato cubes Harry orders with his breakfast will be shared between them. He also gets their orange juice topped up, this time with yet more champagne, and as surreal as it is it does help Eggsy feel a bit more human. He makes grateful noises for Harry's recommendations around mouthfuls of food, moans happily at the bucks fizz, and Harry flutters his eyes in silly mock-bliss when Eggsy passes the potatoes back. 

They watch the dazzling orange sunrise from the weirdest angle, up in the clouds, in comfortable near silence.

"I must say, Eggsy, it's been a pleasure waking up next to you." Harry toasts him again, like before.

"Ain't it," grins Eggsy in something like wonder, and before he can think enough to stop the words coming out of his mouth, "Want to do it again some time?"

The horror dawns as a slow, almost dark smile spreads across Harry's face - blame the bubbles and the altitude, that was a thing wasn't it? - but Harry is holding a business card out to him.

“I’d love to.”

Oh.

After a second's pause to sort his treacherous brain out, Eggsy fumbles to switch his phone back on in flight-safe -  it would be just his luck to cause the whole lot of them to go down in flames at this moment - and taps the number in. Harry Hart. Harry fucking Hart... there's a super hero alter ego name if ever he's heard one.  And he's watching Eggsy, amused, and Eggsy just raises an eyebrow. 

“I seen too many movies, I know what happens. I put this in my pocket, put my jeans in the wash and end up getting a job in Heathrow Costa just on the offchance of seeing you again.” He hates the way his voice goes soft at the end. He doesn't sound like he's lining up the shag they've been making eyes at for seven hours or so; he sounds like he might be a bit in love with him.

“Then let me take yours, too. Just in case you enter a digit wrong and end up sending those beautiful naked pictures to Margaret in Cheltenham -  good lord, boy, she was on her way to collect her pension at the Post Office. She might have had a heart attack." Harry's comically faux-widened eyes sweep definitely over him once again,  and sober back into something hot. "No guaranteeing I won't, for that matter, but I'll take my chances."

Something flips in Eggsy's stomach, draws a shock up from his hips, and he feels his cock start taking an interest again. There's no mistaking that, not that there's been any danger of subtlety between them at any point, but Harry wants him to send naked photos, thinks they'd be  _ beautiful,  _ and what he might get in return is anybody's guess.

They’re going to do this: to take this crazy few hours of chemistry and see where it goes on the ground.

As soon as they announce that phones are safe to use, Harry goes quiet, tapping away, looking remarkably clear headed and like he's going to head straight into a day of being busy and important. It feels like a spell breaking.  Typical, really: Eggsy should have realised it would be nothing to him, that flirting was all well and good in the anonymity and privacy of this space between places, the no man's land of duty free shopping and drinking silly o’clock in the morning, but that he's not going to be seen with someone like him outside that.

Eggsy supposes he should do the same: get back to the real world although he sort of wants to take off and go back to America. To stay here with Harry until wherever the plane stops next and hope that strands them at a nice resort in Turkey or the Maldives or something where they can laze around in a cabana drinking pina coladas and shagging. His notifications ping in in rapid fire - “You're popular,” notes Harry, who is packing his laptop back into its case - and the texts load up without the contacts at first. The number ending in 69 is Ryan. The one beginning _ “babes can you” _ Is obviously his mum. And then he gets to  _ “I’m thinking perhaps a day or so to recover from jet lag, and then may I take you to The Maze on Saturday? Their tortellini is exemplary.” _

It takes a moment for Eggsy to get his head around the fact Harry has already managed to get a text to him, and that he's willing to show his own keenness in return. He looks up and Harry is looking at him, an expectant, hopeful little smile on his face.

“How's their eggs Benedict?”

“You know, I couldn't say.” Harry looks remarkably sensible, suddenly, fastening his buttons up, almost like he doesn’t know what Eggsy’s talking about but his eyes are glinting. “There is, however, a little place two stops from my house that does bottomless brunch on Sundays, Buck's Fizz and all.”

Eggsy doesn't shoot him down, so that's happening.  One business class flight and suddenly he's the sort of person who hooks up with middle aged men and goes for fucking brunch with them the morning after, and apparently posh people drink at breakfast. A pretty decent way to round off a one night stand, or a second date?

He imagines - briefly, indulgently - a life as the pampered boy toy of a rich guy. Fuck it, people put out for some absolute mingers for the shopping trips and fancy dinners, and he was absolutely eyeing harry up before he even thought about that.  He doesn't really know why. Harry's good looking, yeah, but it's not so much that as the way he moves, his charm, his confidence… something about him is just reading like he'd be amazing in bed, and his open admiration of Eggsy makes him feel like he'd be anything but selfish. 

"I'll see you then. We'll text... details, and things." Harry's less self-assured, somehow, the moment the plane comes to a halt and people start bustling around trying to get off before they've even opened the doors, to which Harry rolls his eyes and pointedly sits back in his seat.  Eggsy gets a bit lost in it all, trying to remember whether his carry-on bag came into this part of the plane with him, to work out if he needs to get the little shuttle train thing to the other terminal to get home... 

By the time he gets to think about Harry again, there are people shoving between them, trying to get bags out of cubby holes, tired and disoriented.  Harry is more ready, gets swept along towards the exit before Eggsy has really got his bearings on where his hat or jacket is so he can't follow him. The looks Harry gives back at him are definitely lingering, rueful little smiles like he knows he's pushed his luck, but Eggsy grins at him and tips him the wink of a challenge accepted.

Eggsy finds himself floating over the tarmac and through passport control like he's dreaming, like he's just spent that night in another dimension entirely and is having trouble getting it to tally up with the world he actually lives in as he wanders, dazed, through the airport to baggage claim. He's alright with it. They just better not have lost his fucking bags again - look where that's got him.  He replays it all, standing staring at the black conveyor as the suitcases start to tumble down, in a total world of his own.

A hand touches the small of his back, firm but gentle, and his instincts fill in who must be behind him before the voice just above his ear murmurs “-We really must stop meeting like this.”

It sends a full shiver through him, catapults Eggsy back in a second to the sky-high thrill he inhabited all night.  _ This can't be real.  _ He tips back into the touch.  _ This is madness.   _ He knows it must look like they've already fucked, and he has no reason at all to act like this but he's swept up and he can't help it. Harry is solid at his side, bigger than he thought,  _ wow, _ and smelling suspiciously like he might have been testing out something absurdly expensive in the perfumes in duty free. it's all as intoxicating as mile-high Kir Royale. 

It feels like Harry is trying to hold Eggsy's hand, for a moment, and then Eggsy feels his fingers closed around the silken corded handles of a gift bag . A glance down shows him the distinctive yellow box of a bottle of Veuve Cliquot like they had on the plane, and settled in next to that is a smaller pink box and a bloom of cellophane topping something else he can't see.

“I was going to give them to you on Saturday, but have them to tide you over. In case you've developed a taste.”

"Harry, you can't-"

"Why can't I?" He presses the briefest, most polite kiss just barely on Eggsy's lips so quickly that Eggsy doesn't have time to do anything about it, and draws back. Hes got a point: Eggsy is vaguely familiar with the whole courtship thing, how suitors used to bring flowers and gifts and ring the doorbell to take you out but it wasn't something he ever put together with his life. 

Harry takes a couple more steps backwards, like he's letting his legs make the decisions even whilst his eyes refuse to leave Eggsy's face.  “Saturday,” he insists, and then he's gone. 

Eggsy is tempted to say bollocks to it and chase after him now, slope off back to wherever Harry lives or the nearest place with a lockable door that's more than six foot squared and not going to have people trying to interrupt them because they need a piss. That would be enough for the tingling in guts, the throbbing in his cock that doesn't understand why it's been promised something for hours on end and now isn't going to get it, at least not immediately.

But dinner sounded lovely, Eggsy's never been wooed before, and maybe he's getting a taste for the finer things.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Feedback, kudos, comments et cetera extremely valued as creativity has been absolute hell of late and it's really what keeps me going.
> 
> If you'd like to see my fandom related nonsense and keep up with what I've got in progress, please do follow me on Tumblr - randomactsofviolence . If you would also like me to harass you for headcanons and opinions for my fics (and occasionally pictures of my potted plants) please just drop me a message: I love to chat.


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